


Abide With Me

by AdmiralOptimus



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alaskan AU, Bounty Hunter Villanelle, Cop Eve, Eve is a nerd and i love her, F/F, F/M, Local PD AU, Mentions of Violence, Murder, Mystery, Obsessions, Serial Killer, Slow Burn, i mean its a killing eve fanfic what did you expect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-11-01 10:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17865380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdmiralOptimus/pseuds/AdmiralOptimus
Summary: After everything that happened in Europe, Eve moves to Alaska, hoping to reinvent herself as a small town cop. Villanelle made a deal with Interpol, trading information about those she worked for in return for a new identity. She now uses her skill set as a bounty hunter, tracking down different Nation's most wanted. The two are thrown back together again when Eve makes a startling discovery, one that puts her in pursuit of another serial killer.





	1. Issues

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this story! This is a rewrite of my abandoned worked called the Call on Mallory. I hated the writing style, but loved the plot, so I decided to give it another go. I'll try and update every Sunday. 
> 
> TW's for this chapter:
> 
> None

Eve bit her lip impatiently as the electronic coffee machine slowly whirred to life. It was one of those machines that was supposed to be super efficient- there was a little screen where you clicked your order, and the machine in all of it's coded brilliance would quickly produce said beverage right there in front of your eyes. The reality was that it considered your request for maybe three minutes, them steamed, and then poured maybe a half mug of what you actually ordered. Eve hated it. It almost made her miss her old office, the one in London. Even though it was haunted by the constant presence of Frank, it was nice. Coffee. Croissants for Elena to purposely over pronounce and make Bill groan. A clean kitchen. These Americans didn't know how to clean. Seriously, even as someone who grew up in America, Eve was always a little disgusted at the staff kitchen space. Frank would have a fit, seriously. Eve chewed on her cheek as she corrected herself. Would've. 

The machine gurgled to life and deposited a steaming thin brown liquid into her mug. Thank God for coffee and caffeine. 

Eve grabbed her simple green thermos and walked back over to her desk. 

Life here was pretty simple. Almost depressingly so. The prospect of living in Alaska had seemed so, well, thrilling, at first. Eve had had her European adventures, seen Berlin (and cried over a body there), she'd explored Paris (and looked for a familiar face), skied in the Swiss Alps (with a once husband she no longer talked to), lived in London (and kind of died there, too), she'd toured Italy (with an assassin over her shoulder), and she'd braved Russia (the snow under her boots was bloody). 

She was done with European eccentricity, done with the exoticness of luxury and things that were old and smelled like prestidge, prejudice, and superiority. So Alaska? A snowscape of polar bears and glaciers and coastlines and simple isolation? God, it had sounded so good. Good, though, was a little boring. A little boring always. Maybe gallivanting around Europe as a spy for M16 tracking an assassin she was(nt) in love with had set the bar high for excitement, but still. 

Still, Glenhorn Alaska. It sounded like an adventure. The town's photos online looked like comfort. It was a fishing town. Big on frozen import/export. Home to only 1,200 people. Wikipedia told her that most Alaskan settlements were under 1000 people, so all in all this was practically a city. Beyond fishing, tourism was high. Tourists would stay in sea or lake side B&Bs or hotels, flying in on sea planes or some hiking in on the massive coastal trail that cut just a mile north of the town. The town was well known for something called the split- a once creek that was now a basin filled with ice that had eroded from a nearby glaciar. It was a massive quantity of ice and hard packed snow, so big that it never melted, not even in the 75 degree summer. For tourists, locals would do "light shows" in the clearest part of the split, by placing colorful lights under the ice and switching them on and off in tune to music. It was an Alaskan Tourism phenomenon- Eve saw a video online. It was beautiful. 

Eve went to a light show, it was breathtaking. She went to the beaches and went on the whale watching tours and bought the black out curtains for the eternal sun, but it was just, it felt like a facade that had only half melted away. As a junior detective (Yes, Eve really decided to truly start over), Eve saw small town meetings about what color to paint the town hall (it was left unpainted with the same cracking coat of paint after a dispute broke out) to holding drunk men in the station's holding cell overnight for serious domestic battery and abuse. The only reason Glenhorn Alaska even qualified to have a police station was because it was an access point, the access point, to a lot of more remote smaller towns. It was more of a regional station that catered to locals or fishermen who swore they’d been robbed or tourists who had luggage trouble. 

Eve learned a few things fast. She had to.

The first was that tourists were tolerated, not liked or appreciated. Anyone who could afford to come out to fucking Glenhorn Alaska on a private plane for a trip was mildly hated. It was a thank you for paying us, but leave now, rich white privileged boy, sort of attitude. It was honestly an attitude Eve respected. Eve had found out that some of the boys at the high school had been bottling water from the creek running under the split, fed by the glacier melt. Technically, it was deeply illegal. However, they sold it online for about twenty bucks a bottle. Anyone who would spend twenty dollars on a singular bottled water can get screwed over a bit. Eve pretended not to know. 

The second was that detective was an umbrella term. Eve handled all sorts of cases, basically anything that required even minimum quantities of investigation. Petty theft. Vandalism. Sometimes she'd come along to the East side when there were reports of domestic abuse, screams, that sort of thing. Detective didn’t mean that you were an actual detective. It just meant you existed under that label. 

The third, and final, thing she learned, was that she was an outsider. One hundred percent. That was just fact. Eve knew that even if she lived there till she died an old woman, she'd still be somewhat an outsider. She'd missed the big Alaskan relocation, where everyone looking to reinvent packed up and hauled their asses up North, by about sixty years. It was sixty years she'd never catch up to. Being of Asian descent wasn’t an issue at all. The issue was that she was a strange single woman who seems to already think herself overqualified for the job she applied for. To be fair, she was deeply overqualified. Eve tried not to care about what the townsfolk thought of her. She did, though. 

Eve thought this over as she stirred her coffee with the tip of her pinky finger, feeling the steam burn her fingertips slowly. She pulled her hand away just as she started to feel the warning signs of a blister. In London, once she'd started tracking Villanelle, she felt like she was drowning in everything, but oh god it felt so good to be at that point of just a little out of control. It was that feeling of just, letting the floodgates open or whatever. Giving up on the boredom and delving into all the research she wanted. 

She rolled her eyes at how nerdy that sounded. 

But still. Alaska. 

Eve rapped her fingers on her desk. She knew in all reality that she hadn’t started over. She was a cop for a small town. She wasn’t enacting change or even doing anything particularly different than her previous job in London, the job before Villanelle. So much was the same. She spent almost all day at her desk, she drank way too much coffee, got way too drunk when she went out, and for the most part, she just passed work on to other people or filed reports. 

“Mornin’ Eve,” Jolene, a cheery officer who was a lot like Elena Felton in more ways than one, sat down across from Eve. Their desks faced each other. Jolene was the only other female officer on the force, unless you count assistants or the temps from the DA’s office. They were hardly ever here, though. There was hardly ever anything worth prosecuting. 

“Hey Jo,” Eve said with a smile. 

Jo was a total stereotype. Eve knew this. Jo knew this. It was a fact. She was like every female cop ever portrayed in a movie- she was a larger woman, obsessed with justice and doing the right thing, friendly always, seriously that woman radiated kindness, and always eager to try again. If you put TV cops like Moly Solverson and Donna Hanscum in a blender, you’d get Jo. Eve loved her. 

“It’s getting hot out there!” Jo commented. 

“I know. A whole 75 degrees.”

“Don’t be snarky, Eve. It can’t get much hotter than that in London.”

Eve half-smiled. “You’re not wrong.” 

“Anyhoo,” Jo started, “It’s causing all sorts of trouble at the Split. More and more ice from the glacier is filling the basin mouth, people are worried about the ice shifting. They’ve asked some of the newbies to go put out tape, you know, keep people away for a few days.” 

Eve nodded. “Makes sense.”

“It’s melting a wee bit too, for the first time that I’ve seen.” 

“That’s Global Warming for ya.”

Jo laughed. Eve had never been able to figure out her accent. It was almost Canadian, but not quite. A lot of the folks up here spoke like that, blended accents from different states or countries up North.

“Anyhoo,” Jo said again, “Espinoza might ask ya to go run a check. Make sure the kids stay out. We’re stretched thin today, since most officers are checking the herring exports. Maybe we could go together, make ada of it.” 

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Bring your boots, too. What do you call those in England?”

“Wellies?”

“Yes! Bring those. The melting ice has caused a lot of mud.”

Eve groaned. “You mean we’re probably babysitting a muddy glacier?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Right on cue, Espinoza walks up. 

Some background. 

Eve hates Espinoza with a burning passion. He’s just under 6 foot, white, arrogant, and was the last sheriff’s son. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing, which usually isn’t an issue, as there’s nothing for him to do. However, especially with Jolene and Eve, he tends to be a condescending arsehole. 

“Mornin’ Ladies.”

“Morning Sheriff.” Jo replied. Eve refused to. 

“As you know we’ve been having a little trouble down at the Split.”

“I heard,” Jo replied eagerly.

“I was hoping you two wouldn’t mind goin’ down there and making sure the greenhorns”- yes, he used the term greenhorns to address practically anyone who’s new at anything- “Are doin’ a alright job?”

“Sure.” Jo replied smiling again. 

Espinoza walked off. Behind his back. Jolene scowled. Eve laughed at her expression. 

“Come on, Jo. Let’s go babysit a glacier." 

At the time, the job was irritating. 

By the time the midnight sun sunk that night, it would be a day like no other. 

Until then, though, Eve placed down her coffee, didn't even bother putting on a coat, and got keys for a cruiser. It really was a nice day out. She wanted to enjoy it.


	2. Xpectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, as always, leave comments! Seriously, I love honesty. Say whatever. I hope you enjoy the chapter. Please let me know if you want less frequent, but much longer, chapters, ore more frequent shorter chapters of around this length. 
> 
> TW-
> 
> Minor Violence/A short fight scene 
> 
> Some mild flashbacks

When she felt her boots hit the floor, she hit the floor running. Her hair was a mess, unspooling from the braid it had been in since yesterday. Her jeans had a few new holes, and she'd long ago ditched her dangling earrings. They were in her pocket. More importantly, behind her, was a man with a gun. And it was fantastic. Oksana grinned as her boots came into contact with the snow bordering the barn. She slid, using the ice to her advantage, and turned a corner quicker than she thought possible. As she did, the man appeared in the crooked doorway, the one she had just come tearing out of. "You little bitc-" He started to shout, but clearly he had not anticipated the foot about to come into contact with his face. He stumbled back, and Oksana was on him in a heartbeat. As he clawed at her, spitting and kicking and hitting in a way that revealed he was very new to this, she expertly knocked him on the side of his head with her elbow. He crumpled almost immediately. Oksana stood over him, panting, a smile on her lips. She savored the unconscious form at her feet for a moment before she pulled out her phone. She hadn't even realized, but now that her heart was calming, her side hurt like a bitch. She'd have to check on it back at the hotel. Maybe he'd gotten a better hit in then she'd realized. She looked at the phone resting in her hand, and dialed. 

Maybe some background. 

Villanelle was a bounty hunter. No, she was the best bounty hunter. A year and a half ago, when Eve stormed into her apartment and arrested her, (Oksana had hoped for sex or maybe a good stabbing, some drama, you know? Instead she got handcuffs, and not the sexy kind), Oksana had struck up a deal. She wasn't stupid. After everything in Russia, of course she had gathered intel on Konstantine. She'd been to his fucking house, of course she'd brought a flash drive. She'd made a deal with interpol, one better than she'd ever expected: the flash drive for no prison time and a new identity, as long as she works for Interpol. She had a very specific skill set they couldn't ignore. It's always the same with governments: You're dangerous until your danger is harnessed by them. She closed her eyes, running her fingers over her ribs. Fuck, her side still hurt like hell. For a half second, she could see Konstantine standing over her, and she left the hotel, she was back in that old apartment. He smiled that smile. "Don't show off." She was new, at the time. The feeling of her sore throat, coughing up blood, filled her brain. She could almost smell the now familiar metallic odor the liquid always left. He'd worn his heavy boots that day, to make a point. She opened her eyes, breathing hard. She tried to immediately calm her heartbeat, tried to project calm. She wasn't in the apartment. She was at a hotel, a hotel in bloody fucking Canada. She worked for interpol now. Konstantine, he's dead. Ignore him. "Focus on the present," she whispered it like a mantra, "not the past. The past is dead."

This week, she had been tracking down a mass embezzler accused of murdering his partner in crime. He'd hidden in bloody Canada- can you believe? He was so far North that it was still fucking snowy. One of those areas that was surrounded by open year-round ski resorts. Too easy. She'd even given him a day to run, and he had hidden in an abandoned barn. Bad move. She'd only had her feet on Canadian soil for two days when she found him.

Her deal with interpol was simple. Catch most wanted, bring 'em back alive. Don't ask questions.

That last bit was a wee bit too much like her last employers, but what did you expect? It's like she said. They're all the same, people in power. 

Later that night, she headed back to her hotel. She still had the room for another night. A few Canadian police had come and arrested the man- Nicholas Brendon something or other. Lots of names crammed into one, that sort of thing. For the most part, her targets were the same. Sure, they were of all different colors and nationalities and all accused of different crimes, some terrorists or embezzlers or murderers, but they were all so fucking cocky. Also, all men, at least so far. Oksana sighed, long and slow, as she found her new name under the long list of reservations at the hotel desk. They made you check in whenever you came back, a precaution to make sure nobody got stranded in the mountainsides. If someone was gone more than 24 hours without contacting the hotel, the receptionists contacted the police. She dragged her finger over the list of names, and traced hers. Elvera Bekett. It was such a strange name, it danced on her lips in an unnatural fashion. Apparently Elvera was a Russian name, but Bekett? It seemed so, so, so ordinarily white. A name that could belong to an American or a Englishwoman or, well, anyone. She supposed that was the point, to seem ordinary. At least Elvera was nice. 

As she trudged up to her room, she scrolled through her phone. She hesitated before writing the town name into maps. Glenhorn was only a few hundred miles from where she was. She sighed. 

She knew she'd never go. 

She flopped onto her bed as she scanned her keycard. 

God, she missed Eve. She didn't even know why she did, but oh god, she did. She missed everything about her. Her hair, her voice, the way she crossed her legs or furrowed her brow, her inquisitive nature, everything. She missed watching her react, watching her thing, watching her feel. She missed her clothing, that green zebra scarf, the way she could so easily by swayed, but that was really what she missed about her, the fact that she understood, you know? She could look right through you and at least try and see what you see. 

She looked back at the map icon on her phone.

Only 327 miles away. 

She scoffed. Had she actually considered it?

That was bullshit. 

She rolled back off the bed, wincing a little from the pressure on her side, and opened her suitcase. In one movement, she stripped off the fake lining of the suitcase, revealing an array of guns, knives, the usual. She slid the knife she had in her hidden thigh holster, because come on, if you were gonna be a bounty hunter you needed a thigh holster (she also had a boot holster, a gun sewn into her handbag, backpack, and two swiss army knives; one on a keychain, the other hidden in a particularly high heel. You can never have enough weapons, that was something Oksana had decided ages back.) She ran her fingers over the assorted weapons. They were all interpol issued, of course. So was the daily medication, the bottles of which also rested in the suitcase lining. Next to the pils was another bottle, this one simple and glass, filled with a gentle colored liquid, golden letters reminding her of the inescapable. Villanelle. 

Oksana physically shook her head as she screwed off the lid of a bottle. She popped two in her mouth, along with a tylenol. She walked into the bathroom, pulling up her shirt as she did so. She had almost forgotten about her sore side until she jumped onto the bed. 

Below her sports bra, the side of her ribcage was mildly purple and swollen. The bastard got a good kick in after all. The swore a little as she walked to the mini bar, pulling out a bottle of vodka, the bottle she always requested after she had a successful bounty. Interpol always provided. Considering how little of the wanted reward she got, it was the least they could do. She poured out some onto a hotel dish towel, touching it to her side. She winced from the pain. She was used to pain by now. Nevertheless, her fingers spasmed a little as the alcohol burned. She was sued to it. She had to be. If she wasnt after all these years, she'd just be weak. 

And Oksana was not weak.


	3. Il Voyage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm on break, so I'm writing a lot very often. Don't get too used to it- I'm back in class next week. Ugh. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy the chapter! We're back to Eve's POV here. As always, please like, comment and don't forget to subscribe! 
> 
> Kidding, but really, I always love whatever feedback I can get. Please comment!
> 
> TWs:
> 
> corpses/bodies

So far, for such a strange request, things had been pretty routine with Jo and Eve that morning at the split. They’d gotten into a cruiser, sans usual PD branded parkas, stopped to buy iced coffee, and parked by Easel bridge. They’d chased some kids off the ice once or twice, they’d tried to go sledding on the ice, and Eve had stomped on the bridge while warning anyone who might be underneath that if they weren’t gone in half an hour she’d have to arrest them. Some kids had cleared out the ice down there ages ago. Sometimes it was just a cool hideout. Sometimes the local homeless slept there. Sometimes kids got high or gambled. Honestly, Eve didn’t really give a shit. She just didn’t want to arrest anyone for something petty.

She and Jo had been driving slow loops around the split while the new guys and local security got to their postings at various places along the Split. The tape was up by 11:15, stretching across the whole three mile stretch of ice. People seemed to respect the rules. When Eve went under the bridge at the promised half hour, it was empty. People knew not to fuck around with shifting ice. Eve and Jo had even grabbed seats on the bridge, keeping watch, but not really. There wasn’t much to watch for. 

“So, London.” Jo started. 

“What about it?” Eve said teasingly, but she stiffened a little as she did. A large quantity of her self reinvention required a lot of lies. Her new story, the new Eve Polastri’s story, went like this:

Eve grew up in Colorado with her father. After studying Criminal Psych in college, Eve moved from the US to London to work with M15. There, she mostly helped to sort cases (white lie) and sent emails. Eventually, she wanted a change (true), so she moved to Alaska, where her father lived once years ago (that was a lie, but he had always dreamed of living there) in an attempt to reclaim some heritage while trying something new. Her letter of recommendation was signed by a Carolyn Matters, (as in Carolyn Mathers), who was a small bit supervisor (Carolyn would be disgusted to be called any such thing) and was Eve’s boss for almost a year. Frank and Bill were both victims of unfortunate illnesses, and the deaths of her colleagues spurred her to move away. Niko Polastri was never mentioned, nor was anyone by the name of Oksana, Carolyn Mathers, Villanelle, Kostantine, Anna, or any variations thereof (Because why would Eve ever know anyone like that?). In fact, all people affiliated with Eve’s work were scrubbed from the record, for victim protection of course. Details were confidential, not because they were particularly interesting or juicy, but to get the victim confidentiality in tact. Eve Polastri came with high recommendations, but none too high, as to avoid suspicion. 

So, yeah. Whenever Eve was asked about London, she always felt a brief flash of fear. 

“Tell me really, how nice was Buckingham?” 

“Jo, not all Brits have been to Buckingham. And I’m not even British.”

“Well? Was it nice from the outside?”

Eve rolled her eyes. 

“Come on, I know you went at least once. Did the whole touristy thing.”

“Fine. I did.” Eve paused to point at Jo, “And don’t you go getting any ideas about it either. It was pleasant. A bit stuffy seeming, honestly.” 

“Ha! I knew it! Little Ms. I-hate-the-British-Monarchy is a sucker for tourist destinations like everyone else.” 

Eve rolled her eyes again. “You got me there.”

Jo laughed a little awkwardly. The conversation had already been awkward enough, banter that was just a little off. “How was the rest of London?” 

Eve checked her watch. It was half past one. “Wanna get some lunch? I’m starving,” She said, trying to change the subject as smoothly as possible. 

“Sure. Lionel’s?” Jo went with it. 

“Sounds grand.”

Eve stood up and started to adjust her folding chair. “We should do one more lap before we leave. In case.”

Jo sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

Soon, the cruiser was packed and Eve had the windows rolled down, looking out the passenger side as Jo drove by slowly. 

It was a near perfect day. It really was. 75 degree soft winds, blue skies dotted with just enough clouds, the grass was greener than usual, and even the standard smell of fish that grew ever stronger as you got closer to the water seemed to be less prominent than usual. 

As Eve looked out the rolled down window, Eve started to think. She could tell Jo was too. She wasn’t an idiot. She’d known Eve for about 3 months now, long enough to realize that she wasn’t going to talk about London. And she had to be thinking about why. Maybe she could play it off as a bad breakup- she’d had one of those, anyways. A little voice in her head thought “two, you had two breakups,” but Eve knew that was bullshit. She remembered to think about it like a therapist. That was called on post-obsessive recurring thought, and she knew it. If thinking like a therapist didn't work, she’d think of Niko. That always made her feel guilty, and whatever thought about Oksana she had vanished. 

She’d even considered shock therapy at some point. Some people sweared it worked with conversion therapy, and this wasn't that different right?

Then she’d remember that conversion therapy was evil and just a bunch of religious wankers and she’d go back to feeling clinical or guilty or wanting to try and get Elena to send her Oksana’s updated file. It was a constant cycle. 

The cruiser was headed past Easel bridge now, up to the Northeast side of the ice. This was the place you never saw tourists. For a “bad part” of town, it really wasn't that bad. Sure, the poverty was legit, but for the most part, the people were nice. Just forgotten. 

The paved brick road turned subtley to gravel, then to dirt. In the winter, it turned to mud, then slush, then dirty ice. It was a deathtrap, especially when you considered how many people drove or walked home drunk. Now, it was in it’s usual muddy state, lined by trailers converted into houses, or small cabins and houses with thick tin-reinforced roofs, the type designed to prevent snow from piling up and caving in the roofs. Most houses had trucks or snowmobiles parked out front, some with canoes leaning against walls or flipped over to face the grass. Fishing or gold-panning kits (getting good gold up here was like winning the lottery. Some kids spent all summer break looking and selling. There was a small tourist industry to it too, and a pawn shop downtown) scattered front porches. 

Up here, the split was less crystal clear and more packed with hardened white ice. Apparently, to keep the ice crystal closer to the tourist district, they froze it themselves in the winter. The split here was legit though, ancient glacier wrecked by global warming until it was shoved someplace else. Jo and Eve were just about to turn back, having seen uniforms sitting or standing at least near their designated parts, when they heard the scream. It was loud, sounded like a kid, teenager maybe. Terrified. Panicked. Jo’s face went pale as she slammed on the gas, spinning around on the dirt road in a way that was most definitely illegal to get to the source of the noise. 

Eve knew the likelihood of what happened. Some kids got by officers who weren't paying attention to play, and the ice shifted, trapping one. It was what they had feared. Her heart beat as they got closer, praying to whatever god might be listening to avoid to worst. Two officers were already there, two young men, new force members, and were slipping down to where the kid’s screams were coming from. Eve could hear that something was wrong, the sounds were not pained, but plainly fearful. As soon as they got on scene, with radios crackling to life, Eve and Jo dashed to the ice. Eve (semi)gracefully slid across the slick wet ice, trying to use dents as natural footholds. 

The split wasn't uniform here, it had dents and dips and little caves. Kids spent hours exploring it, drinking from the ice-cold creek running under it, feeding on it’s melt. It looked like the screams were coming from one of those, as Eve struggled to remain upright as she got closer. The whole ice dipped, and then twisted. There was a cave-like dip who’s entrance had clearly only recently broadened due to the melting ice. It had melted so much, Eve could start to see the ice growing darker with the dirt as she got further down the open tunnel. Ahead of her, she heard one of the officers gasp. She pulled on her radio. “Emergency services, stand by for more details.” She got around a bend, barely managing not to slip on the thick ice, and then she saw it.

A teenage girl sat, horrified, on the ice. She must’ve been the one screaming. 

It was a beautiful spot, a natural cove with a roof of thick ice that barely let the sun through. Eve could see why she came here, it was a perfect place to be alone. It was white ice, made of ice and snow packed together. The girl was on her knees, looking at the side. In the dark, Eve didn't see it at first, because it had to be a shadow, right? But it wasn't, she knew that, and her stomach crumpled as she did. It was a face, barely visible through the ice. But a face, yes, of a frozen figure. She pulled out her phone with shaking fingers, and slid on the flashlight button. 

The ice sparkled with the introduction of more light, but she could see it now. Two hands, a face, and a body slowly vanishing from view. Below the body, a third hand floated in the ice like a ghost, it’s owner invisible.

Eve was at a standstill when her radio crackled to life. 

“Polastri, I heard there was a disturbance near Easel. Everything okay?” Espinoza’s voice came through the radio, warped. 

Eve could hear Jo approaching behind her. 

“We need Crime Scene here immediately. We’ve got at least one full body here, but remnants of another.”

 

The radio went dead. 

“Units headed your way.”

Eve felt herself walk forward, do the things she was supposed to do. She could hear people on all ends of the radio talking, asking questions, but it filtered away as she got closer to the girl. 

She was clearly shocked, this Eve knew to expect. She’d just found a body, of course she was shocked. But that wasn't what was important. Eve knew it should be, so she did what she was supposed to do. She heard herself open her mouth, tell the two other officers, the new kids, to close off the scene, to get out. She felt herself walk up to the girl, put a hand on her shoulder, tell her it’s going to be alright, say my name’s Eve, just come with me, alright? What’s your name?

She felt herself do these things, the things she was trained to do, but in that moment, she could only think of one thing, one thought challenging her.

You were bored?


	4. Roller Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know this one’s short, but hey, I couldn’t resist a good old fashioned cliffhanger. Please comment :) seriously I need the feedback. I apologize in advance for any typos, I wrote this on the train. 
> 
> TWs: 
> 
> Obsessive thoughts?

Oksana was bored. That was for sure. Interpol sends her to Canada- CANADA- and because of “inclement weather” they can’t pick her up for another two days. 

That’s a brilliant fucking plan- leave the unstable ex-assassin alone, unreachable, at a remote hotel in a country famous for people being too trusting. And what was this inclement weather bullshit? It’s barely snowing. Pussies. 

Oksana groaned and flopped down onto her bed again. She’d done that way too many times in a not very long timeframe, and that was a problem. When did she become an angst-filled teenager? She was, what, 25?

Shit, she couldn't remember her own age. She groaned again. Stupid interpol. Stupid boring hotel. 

Oksana got up and sauntered over towards the mini fridge. Inside were those little tiny bottles of alcohol, including vodka. Yes! Vodka! The only good part to being a Russian(ish)! 

Oksana did a shot in the most elegant way someone could if they were pajama-clad, with unbrushed once-braided hair, and hotel slippers. She stumbled back over to the bed, resisting the urge to cough. She’s Russian for Christs Sake, you do not cough when you drink vodka. Lazily, she flicked on the TV, and immediately felt a wrench in her gut as a headline appeared. 

A pleasant looking woman was on screen, holding a microphone and talking like she did this everyday, which, Oksana supposed, she did. Behind her, it looked like a crime scene was unfolding. Flashing lights and police cruisers and a constant rush of people confirmed this. It wasn't the scene that interested Oksana though, not at least right now, right now it was the headline. 

BREAKING NEWS- Bodies Uncovered in Glenhorn Alaska- DETAILS TO COME

Villanelle sat up her back rod straight. Her fingers inched towards her phone, where she’d typed in the same location just an hour or two before. 

Quickly, her attention turned to the busy backdrop. A black body bag obviously containing some poor lost soul was being carted across the screen behind the blond reporter as the headline changed slowly. But behind the two men carefully loading the body into a pickup up truck (how official) was a familiar shape. Sure, she was tucked into a dark blue uniform and hunched over the bag, but Oksana knew that shape. She knew that bag, and as the form stood up, she knew that hair, those careless black curls. 

It was Eve. 

She chuckled a little as Eve moved around the screen. Too anyone else, she’d fade into the background, one of many busy cops. But to Oksana, it was like god herself (himself?) had sent down a spotlight upon her, highlighting her, pointing her out, saying yes, that's the one. 

It was no coincidence, Oksana knew, taht minutes after missing Eve, after picturing her, thinking of her, that’s she he sent straight to her screen. 

No this? This was meant to be. 

Oksana laid back again, reaching into her suitcase for her laptop. Leaving the news on, she flipped it open. The google search bar popped up instantly. 

She’d been banned from searching up Eve’s name or looking for her files long back. One of her handlers even suggested that Eve might have a restraining order. Oksana knew that was bullshit. Eve wouldn’t do that to her. 

But there was nothing wrong with searching up a case, right? If the news report was right, this sounded like a mass grave. Mass Grave = Serial Killer, Serial Killer = Oksana, sorry, Elvera, getting hired. This had nothing to do with Eve. 

Nothing at all.


	5. Gnossienne no 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting again, the day after I posted the last chapter! Insane, I know. When school resumes, this schdule will be so fcuked but at least I'm trying. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It gets in a little more to how Eve's job operates, and more importantly, Eve's mental state. And don't worry, I start dropping some details about the murders too. Trust me, by the end there will be very little mystery left, but I'll hold onto what I can for now. 
> 
> I use lyrics from the song irresistible by Fall Out Boy- a song that will be referenced in the next two chapters, wink wink 
> 
> TW's-
> 
> None really? Maybe some poor mental health and mention of murder but I doubt that will be an issue

It was nearly midnight and the sun was just starting to set by the time Eve got home, stumbling back into her house.

Eve’s house was less of a house and more of a stand alone flat. It was tiny, the outside painted a teal green that was already chipping. It had a few windows, all covered with black out curtains to hide the constant sunlight. Eve knew winter was coming, and in winter she’d have those curtains open wide, desperate for light. Some people went crazy, it was so dark for so long. 

She had a foyer, a fancy word for a shitty hallway, the floor plastic meant to look like cheap wood, the sort of flooring you’d find on a boat, which was likely where it had been sourced. Her living room was sparse, a comfy rug to sink her feet in, a table that served as both a dining and coffee table, though usually she just ate in the kitchen. The kitchen was a little nicer. Since leaving Niko (or since he left), Eve has discovered she had no cooking ability whatsoever. Carolyn have her lessons, and she watched some videos online. Now she loved it. It was a little therapeutic- no matter what, if you do the same thing every time and follow the recipient, you’ll get something good. Predictably, Eve was shitty at following directions and made up a lot of her own recipients, but still. Cooking, she loved it. 

The kitchen had slicked countertops, those countertops that could kind of be used as a cutting board all over. When she bought the house, she was tempted to splurge and get them redone in marble, but it wasn’t worth the effort, or the money. Her stove was gas, though out back she did have a wood-fire oven/grill for winter shortages. She loved it, that kitchen. Her kitchen and her bed and her liquor cabinet, which handily was in the kitchen, that’s all she needed. That was home. 

It had been one hell of a day. Eve would’ve wanted to think and research and delve if she wasn’t so goddamn tired. She’d answered all the questions, watched all the bodies go by, helped uncover them, watched them melt down the ice to reveal more horrors. Eve had so many questions, all the who’s what’s how’s why’s when’s but right now she just needed to sleep. And she needed to forget, not just today, but oh god she really wanted to forget every day, you know? Pretend they never even fuk omg happened. She gazed across the living room at her kitchen. She shouldn’t drink tonight, she knew that, but god she wanted to. Alcohol just made everything so much more survivable. It watered down life just that right amount that you could just deal, you know?

Part of Eve was thrilled, was excited, she had a case, a big case, a case so big they didn’t even have a number yet. A case with a body count still rising. It was like part of her was back in London, heart beating fast, bets being placed, brain turning around ideas and thoughts and comprehension. And the other part of her wanted to throw up and sleep and flip off humanity because oh god, someone did all that, you know? And then some part of her was still with Oksana, with Villanelle, for no apparent reason at all. 

And then there was that big rational part that connected all those parts and said this is Europe, this is the twelve, this is Villanelle all over again, and you will fall right down that obsession fueled rabbit hole until oblivion. And maybe Eve was really good at existing in that rabbit hole, maybe she was the best at it, but right now, oh god right now she remembered the after effects of walking out from the rabbit hole and back into the sunlight and real life and existence beyond that one space and she knew that going back down would mean that one day she had to come back out.

Eve closed her eyes as she sat on her couch, the pillows enveloping her very being. Her mind sounded drunk and depressed and dramatic as hell, and how the fuck was that possible when she hadn’t even gotten drunk yet? Was this just how she existed now? In this space? 

Was this all she was? 

When she woke up, it was accompanied by that feeling of that kind of tired. Her skin felt dry and cracked, her body sore, her head even more so. That’s what happens when you fall asleep on your couch, totally exhausted, and question the meaning of your life. Fuckibg brilliant. Eve rolled over, off the couch and trudged towards her kitchen. The clock on the wall proclaimed that it was only 6:15, Eve usually got up at seven, so she could be at work by eight at the latest, but she knew at this point trying to go back to sleep was pointless. 

A cup of coffee later, Eve was in her bedroom , examining herself in the long mirror balanced against the wall. A little makeup was all she needed to cover the bags under her eyes, and a few touches of her usual eyeshadow and lipstick pronounced her face survivably decent for the day ahead. Unlike in London, she actually had to wear her uniform here, which she hated. At least she didn’t have to buy new suits or whatever it was small town cops would wear, but still. She felt constantly in disguise, for some reason. Hiding behind something she was not. 

All in all, however, the uniform wasn’t half bad. Classic fitted light blue top, a true, and high waisted dark navy slacks. Most days, Espinoza encouraged Eve to pair her uniform with heels. She preferred shoes she could actually move in, thank you very much, but she still kept a pair under her desk. Today she stuck with her standard boots: slightly heeled but in a way that she could run if she wanted. Decent compromise. 

As her brain started to slowly kindle back to life, falling back to its usual connections and general ability to actually form intelligent and coherent thoughts. Thank God. Eve had a long day ahead of her. She didn’t want to fuck that up. 

She took a deep breath. Years ago she’d have thought of this as her big break. Now, she felt like an addict, fragile and desperate and capable of collapsing in a second as soon as their weakness enters a room. A case like this, God it could start the spiral, and Eve knew it. She got into her car and started the drive to work. She flipped on her usual station, the only musical one that wasn’t country or traditional. 

Coming in unannounced, drag my nails on the tile

I just followed your scent, you can’t just follow my smile 

All of your flaws are aligned with this mood of mine

Cutting me to the bone nothing to leave behind 

You oughta keep me concealed just light I was a weapon 

I didn’t come for a fight but I will fight till the end

This one might be a battle might not turn out okay you know you look so Seattle but you feel so LA

I love the way, I love the way, I love the way you hurt me Baby 

It’s irresistible-

Eve flipped off the radio, her heart beating too fast. Sometimes, she’s hear something like that, a bit of lyric or a poem or whatnot and suddenly everything was Oksana, everything. She could smell her, see her, feel that buzz in her brain of seeking her. 

Eve closed her eyes, felt the constant vibrations of the gravel under the tires, grounded herself. She opened her eyes again. Took a deep breath. She flipped the radio back in, tuning until she found the news. She knew what they would be discussing before the program even began. 

“So, Bob, based on Glenhorn PD’s lack of public response to the murders, how do you think Local Sheriff Paul Espinoza will respond to press at the conference later this morning?” 

“Well, Cheryl, we know the Sheriff knows all local press, and should have no problem working with the local community to ease fear. I, however, am more concerned with incoming nationwide press. They might promote a stressful situation and interfere with the investigation.”

“Fair point, Bob. Now onto the investigation itself. This morning, our source confirmed that A total of seventeen bodies were excavated from the Northeastern side of the Glenhorn split.”

Eve let out a low whistle. She hadn’t heard the official number yet. 

“However, the bodies remain unidentified as of this moment.” 

“Do the police suspect a local?”

“Well, as I said earlier, Espinoza has not contacted the media as of yet. However, at 11 am today, the public is promised a press conference.”

“Well now be taking calls from the public. Call in and let us know your thoughts about the investigation.” 

Eve turned down the radio as she pulled into the station parking lot. It was already crowded with vans. Even daily mail sent someone. Eve hit her head o the steering wheel. Today was going to suck ass.


	6. When a Woman is Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again guys! If your still reading this, thank you and tbh I am impressed. You’ve survived my rambles and typos, congrats! This chapter gets a little darker, and gets more into Oksana’s character. I hope you enjoy it. The song lyrics mentioned in this chapter is also (hint hint) irresistible by Fall about Boy. 
> 
> As always, please comment, and if it’s deemed deserving’ please leave kudos! You have no idea how much your support and commentary (whether positive or negative) means to me! 
> 
> TWs:   
> Depiction of an assault- this is legit, so please tread carefully. It’s physical assault, not sexual.

Oksana had packed her bags, showered, aced her makeup routine, and chosen that perfect outfit. 

She’d changed up her style since her assasin days. Sure, it was generally the same, still compiled of general disguises and clothing that screamed innocent. Blue jean shorts and pastel tops, pink fluffy dresses, long striped pants, that sort of thing. Now she got to wear whatever. Some days she dressed like a bounty hunter. She’d wear the stretchy tight black jeans with tears in just the right places, black combat boots with buckles, leather jackets of all colors, and casual shirts. Other times, she’d wear suits of charcoal gray of crimson, with ties and button-up shirts. She’d even gotten an undercut, a triangular shape of hair missing from the back of her head. It was a fashion choice she did not regret. It was a prefect reminder of who she was, one that could be hidden behind hair or hats of scarfs or whatever it was she was wearing to play her assigned role, but it was still her. 

Today, she wasn't playing much of a role, which was rare. Oksana was so used to playing a role, a part, a character, that she played one all the time. But over the last few weeks she’d been exploring things she enjoyed, things she appreciated, not things that Elvera or whatever her old covers enjoyed. 

She was wearing simple long navy blue pants with wide bottoms. She loved pants like these. They were reasonably trendy, comfy, and she could still kick ass in them. To pair them, she wore an off-cream top with a hemline she adored. To top it all off, she wore brown leather flats. She looked like she was at a summer fair rather than Canada, but she knew that soon enough, she’d be someplace warmer. Besides, Interpol would never let her far enough outdoors without being in pursuit of a perp for her to come in contact with the snow. She glanced up at the clock, singing under her breath as she did. Her handler was due in two minutes. 

She knew the words, but she couldn't place her finger on the song. She’d heard it someplace recently, that much she knew. Maybe in the lobby of the hotel, they had constant radio presence there. 

 

“You're second hand smoke, second hand smoke,” she murmured, trying to find a home for the words as she sang the somehow familiar lyrics under her breath. 

“I breathe you in but, honey, I don’t know what you're doing to me,”

“Mon Cheri,” She smiled as the familiar language danced off her tounge. 

“But the truth catches up with us eventually,”

“Try and say live, live and let live,” 

The clock ticked in a way that felt too fast, off rhythm with the tempo of the lyrics. Oksana glanced up at it anxiously. Where was her handler?

“But I’m no good at lip service,” 

“Except when they’re yours, mi amor.” 

“I’m coming for you and I’m making war,” 

She was about to get to the chorus, the bit that would tell her the name of this cursed song, when the hotel door rattled. 

“Elvera Beckett?” asked a voice on the other side. 

“That is I,” she said, reciting the usual script.

“Are you alone?”

“Oh yes, as always.” 

The handler wasn't asking about her sex life. He was running through a short script, making sure it truly was Oksana, sorry, Elvera, speaking, that she wasn't currently at gunpoint, and that she was in good health. If she’d answered, for example, yes I am alone, or any other variation thereof, a few officers carrying guns would have arrived in minutes. Interpol doesn't fuck around. 

“And the weather?”

“Quite lovely. It’s a shame I didn't bring my shades.” 

Now that line was especially bullshit to Oksana. Most people she hunted did not go into hiding on luxurious beaches, most chose lives in snow-filled Canada or Minnesota, or in settings so deeply urban that any form of identification is near impossible. No matter the shade of the sky, Oksana always dutifully answered the same. The door beeped open as the handler scanned his card. Oksana looked up at him as he entered the room. She hadn't had this one before; he was tall, a wee bit gray, but not in an attractive manner, and was very tall. He was clearly ex military, she could tell by his build and by the way his eyes darted across the room behind her, and the way he scanned Oksana’s body, not in a sexual way, but checking for weapons. An automatic reflex. He didn’t look her he face, though. 

“Grab your bags. Let’s go.”

Hmm. American. Oksana nodded and grabbed her suitcase and shoulder bag. 

It was the usual. 

They snuck out a back exit to a waiting helicopter, an exit that if you asked any member of the hotel staff about it’s existence, they’d swear they hadn’t seen it before. 

Oksana loved walking across the tarmac to the helicopter. Whether it was from a building’s roof or a parking lot or a particularly flat field, God, she felt cool getting there. Her hair would blow out behind her, along with whatever dress or skirt it scarf she wore that day. Today, the sides of her loose pants flapped in the wind. It was her favorite moment between jobs, that and when she got a window seat. She always felt like a mix between a little kid and a super spy. She’d always felt the same way with Konstantine, of course. Here, mostly, she’d hide it, but she could never resist a little fun, and helicopters, god, those were like a sophisticated kind of fun to her.

She climbed into the helicopter and sat down, pulling the familiar buckles and straps over her chest. Inside was a pilot and a second guard. This one she knew. Mark. Also American. She smiles as she saw him and flipped on her headsets so she could actually hear anything over the rotary blades. 

“Mark! How are the kids?”

“I don’t have kids.”

“Well, I assumed. You don’t talk much.”

“As I said last time, I will not be sharing details about my personal life.”

Oksana frowned. “Awww, are you scared of me?”

Mark looked a little taken aback, but was familiar enough with Oksana’s tactics to laugh it off. “Oh yes, petrified.”

Oksana smiled, fluttering her eyelids a little in that mildly flirty way she perfected years ago. “Yes, well, we both know what happened to the last guy.” She said this with a smile, one to remind him who she was. His face changed, just a little, just enough to assure her that yes, though he may joke, he is afraid of her. “I’m just joking, Mark!” She said, leaning forward as much as the tight harness-like restraints that they called seatbelts would let her. “Gotta joke about it or it’ll scare ya to death,” she said with a wink, “it’s like that with most pasts. Make it funny or it’ll eat you up! Big bad wolf style.” 

She knew she sounded crazy. Sometimes, she would act crazy just got fun. Sometimes she’d just be herself, but that was rare. Sometimes, she didn’t even know what it meant to be herself. She remembered that feeling back in London, when she’d seen Eve, and despite knowing who she should be, she felt that part of herself leaking through. It was a good feeling. An honest feeling. 

“So, Mark, if it’s you and Mr. America here,” she paused, “am I headed back to the states?” 

Mark looked forward as the pilot confirmed take off. “You know I’m not authorized to tell you that.” 

Oksana bit her lip. “Please?” 

Mark smiled, and for one moment, Oksana hoped that maybe she could more of a clue before she was dropped off at whatever border was nearest to get her orders. Then, he spun a knob, muring Oksana’s headset. “Hey!” She shouted. He simply smiled and tapped his ear. He mouthed, “I can’t hear you.” 

Oksana settled for flipping him off. 

No it wasn’t very professional, this playful attitude with Mark, but it was one of those little things that made this whole thing survivable. She’d met him seven times now, he was tied with another handled, Jamie. He wa strict though. She looked out the window as Canada suddenly grew very big and the trees very small. It was an expanse if green and brown and so much white. Beautiful. 

Oksana sighed, letting her breath fog up the window and her eyes grow heavy. She might as well sleep. 

It really hadn’t been that long, at least she didn’t think it had been that long, when she was suddenly woken up by the sound of buckles unbuckling and metal clinking together. Suddenly, as she opened her eyes, she was wretched forward off the helicopter. It was that American. 

“Hey!” She shouted indignantly. “I can fucking walk,” she stumbled forward as his grip grew tighter on her arm, “just, wait.” She looked around, instincts kicking in slowly. She was more sleep deprived then she should’ve allowed. 

“Where’s Mark?” She asked, scanning the room she had just been forced into for him. 

Suddenly, the handler spun around, hitting her in the face. Usually, she’d be ready for it. Right now, only part of her brain was even functioning. She registered pain as she slammed into a cold concrete floor. Her cheek was alight with burning heat. She could feel heat pouring down her lip. She must have split it. 

The guard leaned over her, she could feel the heat of his breath in her face. “It’s people like you that give law enforcement a bad name,” he said, “people like you don’t deserve second chances.” 

He spat on her, right in her face, leaned in real close, and whispered, “Russian whore. Which high up did you fuck for this deal, huh?” 

Oksana could hear rapid footsteps echoing in the room, Mark’s voice shouting “AGENT CORALES STAND DOWN.” Her instincts kicked in. She kneed the guard, agent CORALES, she supposed, in the groin, and used the floor to push herself up, shove the kneeling man over, and plant a knee on his chest. 

Now she leaned in, real close, a calm taking over her. 

“Your just an American Svin’ya*. Who’d I fuck to get this deal?” 

She leaned in closer. “Ask your wife. You’ve been separated over a month now, yeah?” She smiled. 

It was a stupid response, a low blow, but she couldn’t resist taking the bait. Behind her, she what’s Mark scuffling forward, felt him haul her off of him, push her to the side. She watched the pilot cuff Corales, listening to him hurl word after word at her as he walked across the hangar. Mark called a medic for her lip. 

It just took a few stitches. Three, actually, that would dissolve within a week. Mark kept putting a blanket around her, after she was brought into a standard interrogation room, making sure that she really was okay. 

“I’m fine,” she insisted, waiting for her heart to stop hammering and admit the same, “really.”   
She looked in the mirror when he left. This she was used to, too. She just didn’t expect it here. 

But she should’ve. 

*the rough pronunciation of the Russian word for swine


	7. Alone Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I first want to apologize for waiting so long for an update. I have a bunch of excuses but i'm not gonna waste your time- I promise to try and update more regularly. If I get my shit together, once every weekend. Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> TWs for this chapter:  
> Mentions of dead bodies/discussion of murder  
> mild sexism

Eve slumped down at her desk. The day has sucked ass, she really really really had been right. Espinoza had stumbled through a nonsensical press briefing- Daily Mail's deadline for the day was calling him an airhead, a name that Eve didn't entirely disagree with- but still. It wasn't helping the investigation. Rather than doing his work, Espinoza had closed the blinds to his office, and was mourning the death of his reputation. He'd be no help for the day. Eve carefully watched the blinds of his office windows as she forged his signature on a document granting forensics access to an FBI database. He wouldn't mind., and if she went in now, she wouldn't get the signature for a least another 30 minutes. Eve almost sighed as she realized1 that Espinoza made her miss Frank, can you imagine? At least he did his fucking job. 

Eve walked into the research room C, where detectives and the first two FBI investigators who had arrived were setting up the latest photos from forensics. A meeting was due to start in two minutes. The room was a total mess- the floors were that fake plastic covering that people put over cheap tile, all gray and always somehow grimy. The walls were coated in photos and pages, it looked like four or five different people had tried to string up their own crime scene wall and they had just overlapped. The room was too small for all the people who were filling in. Three extra tables had been brought in, at one, Jo sat, sorting through paperwork. Eve gave her the forged slip. "forensics got their green light," she said as she glanced around the room. A rattling sound echoed around the loud room, and Sargent- a loose term- Davis stood up on a metal chair. He was a large man- about 225 pounds, white, a little chubby, with these hideous red-brown sideburns. He'd been on the force since he was in his twenties. His age was never discussed. 

"Listen up!" He shouted. The room fell quiet. "Good." He started. "Now, it begin, everyone who is here on the behalf of the volunteer sheriff's department, clear out now." A few people left the room, grumbling a little. Davis was about to start again when he caught the eyes of someone in the crowd. "Dwight, you're not a cop." 

Eve rolled her eyes. Fucking locals. 

Dwight cleared his throat. "No, sir, but you dint say anything about volunteer the fire department needin' to leave." 

Davis groaned. "Look, anyone who's not a cop, agent, or someone with an actual badge, clear out now. This meeting is authorized personel only. That means you, Dwight. You to John, yeah, I see you back there. Out." 

A few more people left the room. Davis cleared his throat again. "Right then. Let's start this meeting. To start, we've completely closed the scene to the public. The entire split has been shut off. It's bein' searched now. Because the bodies still had their clothing, we're hoping to start we can just use a metal detector, search for boots and belt buckles, that sort of thing."

Eve scoffed a little. That was gonna be a waste of time. Clearly, this killer displayed psycho-obsessive tendencies, meaning he'd commit a murder again and again, hiding them in the same place, finding them at the same place, killing them the same way. Every body had the same cut across the throat, and another deep incision in the torso. Every body was found fully clothed. Every body was found in the same hole in the ice. Psycho-obsessive, case in point. 

"The next big question going round is how many bodies have we found. As of right now, 17. Only one victim has been ID'd- his wallet was on his person- his name was James Rhodey Donnovan. He went hiking on the crest trail, was reported missing in September 2017. We're working on checking missing persons reports to compare to the other victims. We're checking to see if maybe they was all hikers. It could be an MO. A pattern. Polastri, I'm putting you on that." 

Eve nodded. She was grateful to get a job that didn't include consoling locals. 

"Now, I'ma hand out assignments for searching the split in a moment. First, I have a few final announcements. As you've noticed, a few gents from the FBI are here. We're expecting a few more as this investigation continues. Treat them well, let them help, and work with them. We are all working towards the same goal. We're currently keeping the bodies in the morgue and JJ's slaughterhouse- we ran out of room. Tomorrow morning, a specialty forensics team from the FBI will be coming in. I want our investigative team to work with them. Jo's just told me we got access to our first FBI-run forensics database. Use this to your advantage. Okay, assignments- Espinoza will be covering press for the week, but Kathy-" he pointed at the receptionist- "Help him some, please? Jo, I need you to get our guests settled in and work on paperwork. If you need an extra pair of hands, go to Polastri or Devan. Ackles, Jefferson, Thompson, and Donnel, you guys are gonna be leading the Split search with the new guys. Do it well. Take a forensics guy with ya too. Forensics, do your job. Take notes of everything. Everyone left, go door to door, interview those who've already come forward. Ask people if they'd seen anything, and I mean anything, suspicious. Ask them it recall even if it was years back, alright? Okay, everyone clear? I'm here if you need questions." 

Davis stepped off his chair. Eve left the room with the crowd. She headed straight for her computer. On her desk was a stack of victim photos, and another of missing persons reports and flyers. Eve looked over her shoulder. "Thanks Jo!" She shouted. She sat down, spread out the vic photos, and got started. 

Two hours later, she had eight matches, and twelve more case files to go through. Davis had to be right with the hiker connection- none of the vics had all that much in common- they were of different ages, sexualities, genders, races, eye color, nationalities, whatever variation Eve could find. But so far, 9/17 victims had been identified- and all had gone missing while out hiking. Eve looked at one image. The girl on the flyer had this hair, this kinda flat, honey-colored, textured hair. And her eyes seemed to just bore deep into Eve's mind. She shook her head. Today was not a day for ghosts. Today was a day for the present. Today was a day where she had to focus.


	8. Killer Shangri-Lah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys! I thought I'd make up for my three-week long absence with a extra chapter for this week. Hope you enjoy! Please leave feedback, I love whatever comments you leave.
> 
> In this chapter, Oksana and Eve's worlds grow further apart, but don't worry, they'll collide again soon. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> TWs: 
> 
> None that I can think of  
> Villanelle being Villanelle?

Oksana stepped off the plane, pulling her sunglasses off her face as she did so, letting her loosely braided hair blow in the wind. 

It was one of those outdoor plane terminals- the kind designed for dramatic exits and even more dramatic entrances. She adjusted her denim jacket. She loved her outfit today. 

After the Corales incident (that's what her new handlers referred it it as- she hadn't seen Mark or Corales since, and it'd been three days), she'd been shipped off to Europe for the first time in months. Europe, though, meant hotel lobby shopping, and Oksana felt that she'd benefitted greatly. Besides, who could argue against some good old fashioned undercover and disguise recruiting? (That's what her new handler- Jasmine, the first female handler she'd had so far- called her shopping sprees.) But, they had been fruitful. Today, she wore a trendy jumpsuit, colored cream white with off-color thin rainbow stripes running down her body. The pant bottoms ended wide and comfy, leaving plenty of room for her crimson heels. To top it off, red lipstick and a faded denim jacket, with some silver jewelry dotted with chunky fake jewels. 

She walked down the steps attached to the plane, felt her feet touch the tarmac. She could feel the sun on her face. God, it was a perfect day out. Of course it was. She was in Italy- she'd never had a bad day here. She could almost ignore Jasmine walking right behind her. She knew Jasmine had a kevlar vest under her blouse, a gun tucked in her waistband, a voice in her ear. She could almost pretend she was in Italy for pleasure, for that sun and the shopping and the bruschetta. 

At the bottom of the steps, a man in a suit, holding a sign that read ALVAREZ. "Ms. Alvarez?" He asked as she reached him. 

Oksana nodded. 

"How was your flight?" He asked, sounding bored. 

"The usual. I had a middle seat, what can you expect?" That detail was false. They'd never seat her next to a civilian. 

"Sorry to hear that. Sleep any?" 

Oksana grinned. "Oh yes, tons." 

The man looked surprised. That wasn't the script. A flash of panic went across his face as he made eye contact with Jasmine behind him. 

"I'm just kidding," Oksana announced, laughing a little. "Seriously, guys, lighten up." The man did not look amused. "Come on, it was a joke." She looked behind her at Jasmine's stony face. "Fine, I'll finish. No, I didn't sleep one bit. I always toss and turn on flights." 

The man nodded. "Sorry to hear that, ma'am. Let me take your bag." The man reached out, took Oksana's bag from Jasmine, and started to walk forwards. "Right this way." Oksana walked forward. As she did, the man grabbed her arm, harshly. "What the FUCK was that?" he whispered harshly. "Can you not even follow basic fucking protocol?" 

Oksana whispered back. "I got bored." 

The man shoved her forward. "Just keep walking, Alvarez."

As the day continued, she learned more details. Her full name is Mia Alvarez. She'll be staying at the hotel Amarosa, a place she was not to leave untill 8 am tomorrow morning. Her target is a man named Benedismo (he named himself that- his mother named him Al, and he changed it as soon as he turned 18) Montame. He was wanted for various drug trafficking charges, (which type, Oksana never got to learn) in both America and Canada. He'd come to Italy under the fake name Allio Montesse. Oksana was to find him, catch him, and call Jasmine as soon as it was done. When Jasmine picked him up, she was to go with the new guy, Tom, and go back to the hotel. 

One detail stood out as unusual, however. 

"You have permission to use lethal force on those acting protecting or guarding Montame. If these people act in a violent manner towards you, you have permission to use force." Tom was reading in a bland voice from the sheet of paper he had been given. "Lethal Force may be necessary, though it is misadvised," As he read, Oksana's heart sped up. No, not Oksana. Today her heart beat like gunshots and the sound of shotgun shells, her fingers itched for a trigger, for the worn leather handle of a slick knife. Today, she wore not a disguise but a bloody lie, today her brain buzzed with what was and what will never be. Today, she was Villanelle. 

Tom went on, and Oksana- Villanelle- noted what she could define as important. They knew he had purchased a farm under a fake name. "He is a powerful man, so be advised on surveillance." Tom spoke on, reading in that monotone British tone, but Villanelle stopped paying attention. This is the bit where he'd issue his warnings, he'd say things about past crimes or people-gone-missing, he'd advise she wear the kevlar vest they kept giving her. She never listened, whether she was Villanelle or Oksana. Warnings like that were pointless. She knew the only people she was sent after were people they'd tried to ensnare before, people who just kept slipping through their fingers, people like who she used to be. They wouldn't send her unless it was a last resort. It was why she existed. 

Governments, she thought, as Tom rambled on. They care so much about power and weapons. They hate all danger untill it's them who have access to the big red button. They think so much of themselves, but here they are, all trying to share a Russian Assassin to go catch people who break their laws. Here they go, after spending so much time seeking her, labeling her, studying her, calling her a problem, a horror haunting Europe, now that they've got the leash, they don't seem too think that she's that bad after all. She smiled a little. It was funny, once you thought about it.

"Oksana? Are you listening?" Oksana came back to the present. "This part is very important, Oksana, so I need you to understand. Montame must be brought in alive."

Villanelle nodded. Of course. The leash.

Three days later, she had found him. She perched in a shop window. She'd paid off the shopkeeper, and now she watched, waited. Villanelle had emerged for the time being like a chameleon shedding it's skin. Today she wore something typical of a tourist visiting Italy- a long flowing white dress that cut in a slanted line just above the knees, with the back tapping her calves. Over that, she wore one of those wide brimmed hats, and her usual sunglasses. Though dresses lacked practicality, it was a decent enough disguise. Besides, it made her tits look amazing.

Under the dress, she had a gun strapped to one thigh, a knife on the other.

It's what's under all the layers that matters. 

Montame was staying in a farm house that he had decorated. He was used to a luxurious lifestyle, and it was starting to show, his disguise chipping away. The classic patio had been redone to accommodate a hot tub. The crops surrounding the house were dying. And the old stained glass windows had been replaced with black-out curtains, a certain sign of all day parties. Villanelle sighed. She'd hoped this one would be a bit of a struggle. She walked down the stairs into the shop. She stopped at the till and greeted the woman in Italian. The woman grinned. Villanelle motioned towards the deli-like food section, asking to take a few things. The woman smiled. Of course, she said, as Madam had been so generous to pay for a good view. Villanelle smiled, and took only three things- a small goat cheese, a slice of rosemary ciabatta, and just a dash of balsamic. The woman smiled, wished her well. Villanelle smiled as she left, looking to all like a woman on a lovely vacation. 

She walked down the road and to the farm house. As she walked up the driveway, she stopped by the tomato plants that she had seen earlier. She plucked one, crushed it easily, her manicured nails splattering with the fruit's guts. She sprinkled it over the bread and cheese, took as bite, and groaned. Thank God for Bruschetta. It was an Italian tradition. She finished her snack, and walked the rest of the way up the driveway, preparing herself. 

She knocked at the heavy wooden door. A man in gray opened it. She looked up at his face. It wasnt Montame. 

She smiled. Good.

She'd have some fun.


	9. Devil's Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys! If you're reading this, it means you've read eight whole chapters of this ramble (that in itself is impressive) and that you give enough shits to read my thoughts. That's even more impressive. Seriously tho, thanks so much for reading. I hope y'all enjoy this next chapter- we start to get a little more into Eve. 
> 
> Also, I'm considering giving Eve a love intrest besides Villanelle. Thoughts?
> 
> The song used here is The Scientist by Coldplay. I took out a few lines of lyrics- it made it flow better in this fic- but let's just communally ignore that. 
> 
> TWs:
> 
> Mentions of bodies, victims, etc  
> Discussion and methods used to kill someone (not graphic)  
> Drinking/Slight abuse of alcohol

The investigation was going pretty well, Eve thought as she drove home, all things considered. She gazed out the windshield at the wet road. Really, it was. They had ID'd all but two victims from missing persons reports. Thye had an approximate timeline set up for when the killer started, er, killing. They even had a profile running. If they got nowhere in two weeks, they'd send in a FBI team. Maybe that'd be good, Eve thought as she turned onto the road that encircled the bay. It was a beautiful road, just two lanes next to a little walking path, dotted with trees down to a little fence-line. Below that was little rooftops from the shipping part of town, and next to that was the sea, filled with boats and white-tipped waves. Above it all was a fine mist, mingling with the air from the open sea, the mist rolling in from the mountains, where it was thick, obscuring the sunlight. It really was beautiful. Too perfect to be associated with murder. 

Eve turned on the radio. It was the same station as earlier, the only one with music Eve considered decent. Top 40 never did it for her. As she took a gentle turn with the road, a familiar tune started to play. Three notes, then a melody. It was Coldplay's the Scientist. 

"Tell me your secrets, And ask me your questions," 

Eve flipped on her turn signal. It was pointless, there was nobody else on the road, but drivers etiquette and habit won.

"Oh, let's go back to the start."

Eve sighed as she tried to focus on the scenic road ahead of her. She knew she should be awash with the glory of nature and the miracle that is life, and that the light filtering through the mist like that really should make her question her atheism. 

"No-body said it was easy, It's such a shame for us to part."

Eve took a hand off the wheel and rubbed her forehead. She was thinking about what she had thought earlier- the thing about ghosts, about seeing Villanelle, seeing Oksana, everywhere, in the eyes of that dead hiker, about seeing her in the receptionists hair, seeing her in the apples at the grocery store. 

"Nobody said it would be this hard, Oh take me back to the start," 

Eve watched the white picket fence go by as she got closer to her turn off. 

"Do not speak as loud as my heart,"

Eve took the turn, mist mingling with her tires. She was driving a little faster than usual, faster than she should be. She was thinking about her past about how even now, even a year after she and Villanelle had last seen eachother, she was so obsessive about this. She couldn't let her go. She'd tried to justify it, you know? Villanelle had killed her best friend, or at least her only friend, she'd cost her her marriage, her life in England, Villanelle had taken so much, almost like she had taken a knife and just carved out pieces of it. But Eve knew that wasnt it. There was something about Villanelle she couldn't get rid of.

"Tell me you love me,"

She stepped on the gas pedal. 

She had caught Villanelle, it was over. But it wasn't at the same time. Villanelle was a ghost, a ghost Eve had to let go of. 

Suddenly, in the mist ahead, a dark figure appeared. Eve swerved hard, the car tires sliding on wet asphalt. The car slid before halting. Two feet in frount of the car stood a gentle deer, staring immobile into the windshield, into Eve. Eve was panting hard, her heart hammering in her chest. 

"Oh, come back and haunt me." 

Eve spun the dial on the radio, turning it to static. The deer darted away. Eve sat there a moment, in her shitty prius, just breathing, remembering how to do that part. The static filled the car as mist rolled out the windows. Eve shut off the radio, and started the car again. Slowly, this time. As she looked out her window, she could swear that she could see the shadowy figure of the deer being enveloped by the mist.

Lucky Bastard.


	10. This is the Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get hyped guys- this chapter starts the collision of Villanelle and Eve's worlds. They don't interact here (I did warn you- it's a slow burn,) but look, they will soon. 
> 
> So I didn't quite plan this to happen till I made some plot adjustments, so this might not quite fit in with the backstory described by Eve in previous chapters. I apologize for that inconsistency- I know it's hella annoying, and I'm trying to keep it to a minimum. But- I think you'll like the plot line kicked off by this chapter enough to forgive me. 
> 
> Also, slight season 2 spoilers. I'll mention where they are before hand. It just helps to fully form Villanelle's story regarding how she got to working with interpol. 
> 
> TWs:  
> Villanelle being Villanelle (what else did you expect?)   
> Depictions of murder (non-graphic)

It had been two weeks since Italy. Since, she'd had a bounty, sorry, a target, as they were now called, every day. It was thrilling. Villanelle loved the rush of being, well, Villanelle again. Sure, the whole government-authorized and regulated assassinations kinda took the fun out of things, but she didn't have to deal with most of that red tape. Things had really changed here over the last few weeks- last Tuesday, she wasn't even after a bounty- she was sniping some communist politician through a window. Not that she was complaining. She just kinda wished she could know who's blood was on her hands- sure, it didn't take away any of that thrill, not knowing, but there was that part of her that for a moment wondered who would miss the person who's brains she'd just spilled onto the sidewalk, you know? 

Villanelle was smart, though. She knew why they were speeding things up. Sure, she didn't get a calendar or a phone or whatever, in fact, she rarely knew the actual date, but she knew it was coming up to the grand official year mark that meant Villanelle had "served" her time, meant that Interpol or the ICC had any power over her. After a year, she was free to go with a new identity, and, if she wanted, a bounty hunter's license. Turning on Konstantine, the twelve, all that, had been quite beneficial. (SPOILER) Come on, even when dealing with the Ghost, they were willing to work with her. (END OF SPOILERS) She was right before. Villanelle was seen as dangerous until they got to be the ones controlling her. Then, she was an asset, apparently. Politics, Villanelle had learned, was a giant chess game where players had managed to find holes in the rule book.

But as the clock was ticking, as that one year deal was running out of time, Villanelle could see that her handlers were getting more and more desperate to use her for whatever jobs needed doing. Sometimes, Villanelle felt a little used, you know? But that was impossible. Oksana was the one who got all emotional and felt used, what a stupid word. She was Villanelle, and Villanelle, is a stone cold badass with a weakness for dark-haired women. 

"Last run, huh?" He said, smiling.

Villanelle smiled back. He was British, she could tell. Both by his accent and by the flag on his uniform sleeve. 

Last Run. They'd probably said this before. She'd probably just forgotten. 

She had forgotten where she was, thinking about all this, she'd forgotten where she was headed. She looked out the helicopter window. Syria stretched as far as the eye can see. The wreckage of what once must've been a small town vanished behind her. She blew hot steamy air onto the window, drew a little smiley face. Obscured shots of wreckage flashed behind it. Villanelle smiled at it. A radio cackled. Villanelle stared at its eyes. "Let's go," the man said. "Get ready for the drop. I want no bullshit from you, alright? You know the drill, but here, you fuck up, you die. Got it?" 

She nodded.

Last run. 

The helicopter started coming down for a landing on a red dusty field. It was coated in grass, dead, dry grass, grass that would reach past her knees. It was surrounded by broken brick. Villanelle wondered what it once must've been. "Let's go!" The man shouted. Villanelle went. 

She followed him as he ducked into a nearby building, the ceiling partially caved in. It was hot, hot and humid and somehow dry all at the same time. 

She didn't envy the man she was with. He was dressed like a soldier, hard hat a heavy camo equipment and all. Villanelle's outfit had been preselected for her. She didnt mind. High fashion hadnt been on her mind as of late. She was dressed nothing like a soldier. She had on a long light yellow-orange dress, one that nearly matched the color of teh soil. It was just an inch of the floor. She hated it. She liked being able to move. She had put on some leggings underneath, though, just in case she had to move. She was very nearly regretting that now. It's hot. 

She ducked into a building behind the man. She couldn't understand the rush. When she heard she was Syria bound, she expected bombs to be falling from the sky, gunfire to be everywhere. But it was quiet. The man's radio crackled quietly. He whispered into it. "Let's go, come on," He whispered, harshly. "The target's up ahead." Then she heard it, not gunfire, no, was that, music? As the man ran forward, she saw it. A house stood tall, a wall around it ringed with barbed wire. It stood amid the destruction. She could hear voices, talking, chattering, even, from inside those walls. 

"Who's the target?" She whispered. 

The man ignored her. He whispered back in his walkie talkie. "In position." 

A moment later, a man came around the corner. By his attire, he looked like a guard of some sort. Villanelle drew back, trying to hide maybe, but the man grabbed her arm. "He's with us," he hissed, "stop bloody moving." Villanelle nodded. 

She felt panicked. She always wanted to know what she was doing, what she was walking into. She hated that feeling. Like she was out in the open, or like someone had just thrown her into a very deep, dark, tank of water, and she knew something inside it, something under her exposed feet, was moving, but she didn't know what. She had stopped feeling like Villanelle. Now, she decided, she really, really, felt like Oksana. She didnt feel like the femme fatal assassin who had made a deal with the actual government to kill more people, she felt kinda scared and cold. She had to ignore that now, she knew that, but she had a hard time doing it. "Last Run," she whispered, repeating the words like a mantra. "Last Run, Last Run." She tasted the words on her tongue. 

The guard nodded at the soldier who pulled her forward. The guard pointed at a hole under the wall. The solider pointed at it, shoved her under. She scrambled, that reddish-orange dust melding into her skin and face and hair and the cloth of the jumpsuit. She coughed, she felt like it must be painting the inside of her lungs the same shade. She stood up on the other side, looking behind her. She was facing an empty lot, behind that house. The solider slid two things through hole. A white headscarf, wrapped up in plastic to keep the dust off, and a photograph. A older bearded man smiled back at her. She knew him. He'd been on the news recently, he was the one with the plan to revolutionize Syria and take out ISIS. He was the one who has running for president, because somehow the country had gotten it's shit together long enough to have a vaguely democratic election.

"Put the scarf on. Take him out at first opportunity. Keep your face, and your gun, covered for as long as possible. Fire three shots into the air after its done and meet me here in 75 seconds. Fire five if theres an emergency. You have twelve bullets. Understand?" Oksana nodded. "Go get him. Be quick." 

She pulled on the scarf, dusting off all the muck. She tucked her hair into the white folds of fabric as she wrapped the scarf in the same way you'd wrap a basic hijab. She tucked the handgun to an upper ankle holster. She was ready. She tucked the photo into her bra. She walked around the corner, and boom, right there, was a party. Dozens of people with drinks and suits all stood around. Thats when she understood. This was a campaign event. For the man, Al-Amir or something? And it was hosted here to show off the new Syria, the reforms that could be made. 

She walked confidently through a side door leading to the house, scanning the crowd for her target. She ducked into the house quickly. A man saw her and smiled. "Ah!" Oksana was grateful that she had broken usual hijab fashion and partially covered her face. "You must be the entertainment." Oksana took the scarf from her face. "Yes! Of course!" She smiled, her mind racing to keep up. She had learned one thing in situations like this. When you are trying to embed yourself in an event, fill any position you can. She winced as she realized that she had just signed up for one in the spotlight. That was usually a no-no. But then the man said the magic words. "Almasi! Come down here and meet that singer you hired!" Oksana smiled. Almasi! That was the last name, Amir Al-Almasi. Lot's of A's. The man ushered her to the next room, where a gleaming piano sat. Oksana was shocked. There it was, a extraordinarily expensive, heavy instrument that must've cost a fortune to transport to Syria of all places. Oksana knew not which part of Syria she was in, but dear god, could you imagine? 

Oksana was ushered to take a seat, and a new panic began. She had used to play, she knew a song or two. She felt that other part of her, the Villanelle part, start to take over. That part that liked to strut and grab peoples attention, that part that could bullshit her way through anything. She placed her fingers on the keys as she started making a scene. Play, and Almasi would come down, come and listen, maybe greet her. She could make a diversion, shoot him then, maybe, when everyone's looking away. Her heart pounded. This was more improv than usual. Her pulse exploded as she thought that maybe this really was her last run. 

She closed her eyes, and applied familiar pressure to her fingers. The first note rang out. The man who has escorted her hushed the crowd sitting outside. Villanelle began to play.

The first notes echoed in the room. She remembered what the man had shouted up the stairs- come meet that singer you hired! She opened her mouth. 

"When you were hear before,"

The notes tumbled from the piano. She'd forgotten that she'd learned this one back in Paris. Back when she was near Eve.

"Couldn't look you in the eye," 

As she sang, she tried to think of a plan. She tried to figure out that diversion. 

"You're just like an angel,"

"Your skin makes me cry,"

She heard a real hush now come over the crowd. The stairs creaked as people came downstairs to listen. 

"You float like a feather," 

She knew she was singing this with a little more desperation that the original radiohead hit went with. She liked it this way, her throat cracking with what she hoped sounded like heartbreak rather than incompetency. 

"In a beautiful world," 

She used to sing, you know. As a kid. 

"And I wish I was special,"

She had loved this one when it came out. Was was she? Someplace in her teens. Anna liked it too. 

"You're so fucking special,"

"But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo,"

"What the hell am I doing here?"

She wanted to laugh as she sang that line, because oh god, if the people listening only knew. 

"I don't belong here,"

She could hear someone walking down the stairs. Maybe it was Almasi. Maybe he knew she wasn't what she said she was. She heart rate quickened. 

"I don't care if it hurts, I want to have control, I want the perfect body, I want the perfect soul,"

She upped the pace a tap. Her fingers just seemed to know these notes. She remembered when Anna had taught it to her. She had liked the song too. 

"I want you to notice when I'm not around."

Villanelle realized how she sounded. Her voice seemed tragic and desperate and maybe a little too Russian but she hoped they wouldn't notice. 

She pushed through the chorus. She wanted to pretend the song wasn't making her as emotional as she felt.

Before she knew it, she was playing the last few notes. The last chorus. 

"What the hell am I doing here? Oh, I don't belong here."

"Oh, I don't belong."

She played the last note. The song ended with an echo. A man began to clap, and Oksana spun around on the piano bench to face him. It was Almasi. A man on the side whispered, "I thought the singer was Iraqi?" As Almasi approached, Oksana began to panic. She needed that diversion. All of a sudden, she heard it, a high pitched whistle. She dropped to her knees as someone shouted out. Below her, the ground shifted, and everything moved at once. A shell had slammed into the building. 

Villanelle could feel the noise, and the ground stopped lurching. The piano, that gleaming instrument, was shattered. It felt like part of it was in her side, maybe. It hurt. So did her head. She stood up shakily, looked at Almasi lying on the floor, coated in white plaster dust. She shot him, once, than three times in the air. She started to run towards the hole under the wall before she realized the wall, it was gone. Cries of shock started to go up from the building behind her. She ran out, she was running, she couldn't quite see all the way, but she was running. She was past the wall of shattered brick, she was back in that red dust, and an arm grabbed her, pinning her back. She started to squirm, to fight, they had caught up with her, she knew it. "Shut up, shut up!" A voice whispered harshly. 

It was the soldier. Oksana relaxed immediately. "Let's go." He said. "The shell wasnt ours. We need to get out." Villanelle nodded. 

It was black for a minute there. But when she woke up, she was in the helicopter. "You've gotten a concussion," said the form standing over her. She knew him. The world seemed very very strange right now. "In the explosion. You're gonna be alright." He said something into a gray box. "You're done, Oksana. You're done." 

It went dark again. 

She woke up in a hospital. She didn't much feel like moving, but if she did, she'd've found that on her bedside table was an ID proclaiming her to be named Maia Wilson. In her new wallet was a bounty hunters license. 

A anonymous donor was paying for her healthcare. Nobody knew who. A quick background check on Maia Wilson showed nothing unusual. She had a bank account, previous work experience, had graduated high school, gone to a state college. No family, though, the poor dear. But she'd heal up quick. In fact, a nurse would've said to any curious parties, she'll be free to go by tomorrow evening.

She'd be gone by sunrise for sure.


	11. K

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eve takes a day off. Well, at least she tries to. (PART ONE) 
> 
> This is a super short chapter- I have AP exams this week and am really busy, I am so sorry and will make it up!!! 
> 
> (cue normal babble about how grateful I am for my readers- because really, I am oh so grateful!)
> 
> TWs: 
> 
> None come to mind.

Eve was sitting at her desk, flipping through missing persons files. She had already scanned these. She knew the one unidentified victim wouldn't be here. She still checked. The file with the honey-haired girl was still open, laying next to a cold cup of coffee. She was suddenly distracted by Espinoza rapping on her desk. 

"Polastri," He said, sitting on the corner of her desk. Eve resisted the temptation to say something. She hated it when he did that. "We gotta talk."

Eve spun her chair to face him. "What's up?" 

"Look, Polastri." He shifted a little awkwardly. "You are clearly very committed to this case." 

Eve sighed. If he was starting off with a compliment, the future did not hold out well for her.

"No, really, I mean that." He shifted his weight again. "I'm just- well, truth be told, I'm a little concerned." 

Eve cocked her head. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Concerned. Look, Polastri," He paused. 

"You said that already." 

"Polastri-" He continued, "Yesterday you clocked in 18 hours straight. The day before, 19. It's been two weeks on this whole missing persons lead thing. The FBI is covering the unidentified body. You know that." 

Eve nodded. "Sir, I'm just trying to cover all our bases-"

"And that's great! But Polastri, you gotta go home. You gotta sleep. It's what- a fifteen minute drive to your place? That leaves time for about 5 hours of sleep. Top."

Eve shrugged. "It's a murder investigation. You make sacrifices." 

"Look, Eve,"

Eve rolled her eyes. Third times the charm.

"Eve, I just. I think you need a day off. Just one day."

Eve stood up, outraged. How fucking dare he.

"Are you- are you removing me from this case?" Eve half-yelled, mortified. 

"No, not at all. You just need, I think you could use a break. Get some rest."

Eve fumed. This was grade A bullshit. 

"Are you saying, sir," Eve gritted her teeth a bit, a habit she had been trying to stop, "That you want to remove me-"

"Temporarily,"

"Sorry, Temporarily remove me from a case because I'm working too hard?"

"Eve you just need a day off."

Eve felt outraged. Betrayed. 

"Oh cut the shit, Espinoza. I don't see you saying the same to any of your male officers." 

A silence fell across the station. Espinoza slid off her desk. 

"It's two days now, Eve. Get some rest. Say anything else, and it'll count as a suspension. I don't want to see you in the station. I don't want to hear about you working the case. You. Need. Time. Off." He smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes, put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm just trying to do whats best for you, Eve." 

Eve stormed out of the station ten minutes later. Blatant fucking sexism.  
_________________________

Eve went home first, flying down the road in a rage, fuming about everything wrong in the world. When she got home, she poured herself a drink (yay single life!), flopped down on the couch, and considered working the case. She sighed. She was tempted to work the case anyways, stick it to Espinoza yadayadayada. Or, she thought, she could actually take a vacation. Working the case wasnt worth the risk f a real suspension, even if it was a bullshit one. 

She finished the rest of her drink. She had an idea.   
__________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey- I could use some advice about how I write dialogue, especially Eve's dialogue. I feel like it lacks emotion. Any suggestions?


End file.
